


brought back fresh to a land of living things we should not be a part of anymore

by tussanus_postea



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond - All Media Types
Genre: Immortality, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:48:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25219531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tussanus_postea/pseuds/tussanus_postea
Summary: "But it was never easy, watching another flame snuffed in front of him. Like now, as the new Quatermaster, a lithe crow haired boy who couldn't have been out of college for more than a few years, got his throat slit, having tried foolishly to pursue Silva. "Q dies. And then...
Relationships: James Bond/Q
Comments: 4
Kudos: 87





	brought back fresh to a land of living things we should not be a part of anymore

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this in 2018, lost the idea behind it, but it did not age too badly so ! Feel free to adopt this story :)

Bond had been dying for centuries. The only difference with everyone else was, while they struggled for breath and warmth and loved ones, he just accepted it was his time... and lived on. 

He wasn't sure it was immortality ; his blood spilled on the ground, his skull and bones cracked and broke, he blacked out. But he would always open his eyes again, sometimes days later. On one memorable occasion, he'd been buried already, and had to crawl his way out of the graveyard, looking litteraly worse than death, and had developped quite a dislike for closed off spaces. 

It didn't take much time before people begun to notice he came back – he may have been responsible for that dreadful zombie obsession in the carribeans – and tried to take advantage of it. Bond's stint at MI6 went back three hundred years, when a King had seen him die before his eyes, and kill his assassin three minutes later, a bloodied and vengeful silhouette. 

The current M knew about him, of course, and some of the old vanguard did too, but almost everyone in this era MI6 thought he was just hard to kill. Which was just how he liked it. 

He'd lived that last century as a ghost and a spy, with few relatives and friends. Having seen spouses, children, grand children and countless friends and foes die in his numerous years, he couldn't attach himself as easily. 

But it was never easy, watching another flame snuffed in front of him. Like now, as the new Quatermaster, a lithe crow haired boy who couldn't have been out of college for more than a few years, got his throat slit, having tried foolishly to pursue Silva. 

Bond didn't have the time to stay, if he wanted to shoot the bastard, but he couldn't let the poor chap die alone. He crouched, lifting the boy's head carefully. Q's eyes were flicking wildly, hands scrambling at his throat, useless things now, and it wouldn't be long now. Bond rumbled “S'okay, Q, you'll be ok.” trying to at least soothe his passing. Lying to the dying did not move him anymore, not when they could light up their eyes with hope, just before the dizziness took them forever. 

Q flayed a bit more, then rattled another, last, breath. Bond got up, ready to run again, having fulfilled the oath he took so many centuries ago ; never letting a soul pass away alone. 

Then, as he took a step, Q breathed again, hiccuping, and sat up. 

\--- 

The new M was settling into place, trying to federate his ragtad band of MI6 survivors. Bond had died, once again, dunking into an iced lake, as his charge was shot. He'd killed Silva for this, and all of his thugs, before coming back to London, looking like a block of ice himself. 

Between the running, killing and grieving, Bond had almost managed to forgot about Q. Q, who'd gotten up, belivered and dazed, shooing him away with a waver, as his intact throat remembered how to work. Q, who was alive, and well, and not hiding. 

Bond had thought he would have to be careful, have to probe a bit before Q would admit he'd come back, but the young man had cornered him right after they'd both left Mallory's office, asking him if he could come with him to his workshop. 

Battered and bruised, Bond followed him, unable to stop himself. Here was someone just like him, and he'd missed it. He hadn't know there were others. 

“You saw me die.” Q said, looking at him, sitting in an armchair that would not have looked out of place in a 80's manor. 

“I saw you live.” Bond countered, staying up, scanning the room, restless. His instincts were still running high from Skyfall, and a death that had costed him another of the few souls he'd trusted. 

“You're not surprised. Well, I suppose you were, at the time, but you're not now. Will you explain?”

Another man wouldn't have seen the hunched shoulders, the false bravado in Q's voice. Bond analysed it all, and relaxed. This wasn't a man as old as he was, an ancient being full of secrets and lies. This was a young boy, brought back fresh to a land of living things he should not be a part of anymore. 

“I can, and I will, Q. But first, I need to know your real age.”

This got another quick reaction, from that boyish face and those canny eyes, who'd seen too much. At first Bond had hoped for a soul as old as his, then he'd gambled on a new immortal. Now, as he was recognised for what he was, he found himself full of a burning fire, a bright hope, to finally see a friend in a land of ennemies. 

“I'm 94. Survived a blitz bomb during the war, then found I did not age and... well, I didn't know I could do that trick again.”

“You can. I'm not too keen on trying, but I could shoot you if you want me to. It may take a few hours for you to wake, though. The shorter the times between deaths, the longer the.. recovery period.” Bond was a man of secrets, guarding his weaknesses to himself. This, though, was not one of them : and here was someone who could, maybe, understand. He would have been helpless not to tell him even if Q had been an enemy soldier on a faraway land. 

“You have. Died, I mean. I thought you were one lucky bastard, coming back from so many deadly missions, but you didn't, right ?”

“Not every time, no. Which is the reason I get the deadliest missions, and why I left after Ranson died. He shouldn't have come with me, and the old M knew that. Higher ups thought if I could take it, he could. He didn't.” And that wasn't okay, for James. They'd thought Ranson had been expendable, or at least, qualified enough to look Death in the face. They'd taken Bond's record for granted, for safety, when it was anything but that.

“But you came back. For M. For MI6.” Q's voice was quieter, bringing him back to the present. The boy – even if he wasn't a boy, not by mortals standards – looked at him, waiting for more. James was not going to disappoint.

“I came back because I can't be a coward, and let others clean up my mess.”

Maybe his presence would not have changed the outcome of the explosion who wrecked the old XV building. Maybe Silva would have recognized another predator and acted around him, later or sooner. Bond didn't deal in maybes : he acted. 

They went silent after this, dazed, covered in grime and gore. Bond hadn't taken a shower – except if you counted the ice lake – and Q was still wearing his bloodied cardigan, his own blood. They looked like death warmed over, which was actually an accurate description of their lives. The agent wondered again how long this would go on, how much longer his body would warm on his own after the shock of another cold death. 

A few days ago, a month ago, almost drowning on that river, he would have welcomed a true, everlasting respite. Now, as the young boffin across him yawned and blinked at him with curiosity, wonder and kinship, he was tempted to ask for more time. 

“Fancy a drink? I've got a bottle of 1974's Ardbeg that should last us long enough to go from my birth to something like the fifth century.”

Q laughed, his face losing all traces of fatigue and strain, boosting him from an average it crowd character to a beautiful leading actor. James' breatch caught in his throat, the low buzz of his libido raising from the dead making him feel dizzy with want. A match. An eternal match, be it of friendship, rivalry, or love. Someone to die for – someone to want to return to.


End file.
